


Hex Obliges

by SHIBUIKING (Heeshura)



Series: Hex Obliges [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Georgian Period, Lovecraftian, M/M, cosmic horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heeshura/pseuds/SHIBUIKING
Summary: A rewrite and continuation of Hex Quest, which I was making on tgchan in 2016. Based on Lovecraft's short stories and Bloodborne (of course).Set in 1819 England, Jervas Hex continues his quest for ultimate beauty but the squabbles of higher powers draw him unwillingly back into a world he tries to ignore— unwilling to subject his childhood friend Wilfred Brierhart to it's horrors again.





	Hex Obliges

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in art or character appearances, etc, I have a [tag](http://shibuiking.tumblr.com/tagged/hex-obliges) on my art blog for everything pertaining to this story.

There is nothing in this world more important than aesthetics, is what Mr. Jervas Hex thinks as he sits at his home, dabbing a brush. There is nothing more important than a beautiful landscape, a beautiful person, a beautiful idea. Ugliness is a stain upon the land. This is what he thinks as he sits in the crowded confines of a Great Oxmere auction house, scowling at the works being put on display and cursing the ones responsible for their creation.  
The art being sold here cost enough to for him to live in opulence for the rest of his life, but none of the rich fools attending ever look at his own work. He is an artist, and his works encapsulate the ephemeral concept of death, something pure and untainted.

A church bell chimes 10 times in the distance, it’s sound carrying across the fine city and past a little candle shop in Ruxley, snug in the middle of the city walls. The man who owns the business is a steadfast friend with a knack for unknowingly pointing Mr. Hex in the right direction, however he’s also a coward, a quivering imbecile; devoted nonetheless, and well protected for that reason.  
Mr. Hex steps out of the carriage with nary a word to the haggard driver, having paid beforehand to avoid being on the streets at night. Windows blackened with soot darken the roads, giving the impression that the very sky was not only blotted out with smoke, but the haunting knowledge of the blackness of one’s heart— of those that may wander at this hour. One storefront remains a beacon of goodwill in the gloom, belonging to Mr. Wilfred Brierhart, perhaps reflecting the man’s own sense of self and banishing the unease along with the night, or merely just a product of the dozen candles lit within its threshold. Cracked sills, a beaten door, discolored paint where the knocker once hung, aesthetically it does not stand out in the array of terraced stores, each one just as well-used as the next. The product of long-term commerce, not disrespect.  
The dull windows pour their warming light over Mr. Hex as he steps into their rays, he sees Wilfred carving a little wood figurine behind the counter and he sees a reflection of himself, his stark white eyes glowing eerily, intensified by the light reflecting from his round glasses, and a sly smile grows on his face. Mr. Brierhart is indeed a warm-hearted man, though his timid nature is similarly commonly known; Mr. Hex knows this more intimately than any soul could ever hope to. The anger from the auction earlier abates as he takes in his friend’s preoccupied form, replaced with the more innocent desire for mischief-making. Mr. Brierhart once made the mistake— one of many— of commissioning an extra house key from the cobbler down the road, a mistake that he has certainly regretted in the past and will no doubt continue to do so, for Mr. Hex has no hesitation in turning the lock and quietly stealing into the peaceful scene. Candles are unceremoniously shoved to the side as he takes his place in middle of a relatively empty table, lounging with a decadent air and waiting for his friend to espy. It takes a minute before Mr. Brierhart realises he’s there, but the rest of the street must assume him dead or worse, for his wail is as shocking as a banshee’s; it’s like music to Mr. Hex’s ears and his own cackle is almost as loud.

“Good evening my dear Wilfred, attentive as ever aren’t we? You’re ever so lucky to have someone like me around in case you ever do get a visit from real thieves!” Mr. Hex smiles at Mr. Brierhart on the floor, his unfinished figurine and knife accompanying him; though it appears his knife took a small detour through the side of his palm when he was spooked. The blood drips through the hole in his glove onto the wooden floor. Hex’s smile grows wider.  
Mr. Wilfred Brierhart is not a large man; he is young and fresh faced, and a mere year’s senior to Mr. Hex. It is not unusual for a man in the candle making profession to carry themselves with little regard as to their poise and he is no exception; his thick dark brown hair spiralling in all directions from his scalp, a comb would be of little help trying to tame it, and he bears scruffy mutton chops aside his cheeks. Wax drippings cover the disastrous state of his half apron; it is clearly old and well used, but Mr. Hex also knows this well, having been present when it was acquired.  
He is a carver by trade, not only of wax but of wood. An honest working artist; though his works are rarely regarded as such. Mr. Hex feels kinship with him in this way, and bears a deep respect of the intricate works of art his quavering hands manage to mold.

The man picks himself up slowly, gingerly holding his wounded hand and casting his meek visage at Mr. Hex. “Y-you’re going to be the death of me one day, dear me… How did the auction go?”

“I’m not here to discuss that.” The curt tone makes Mr. Brierhart jump again. “You know what I’m here for, sir, I want names.” He’s like a shrinking violet under Mr. Hex’s hard gaze, yet he still has enough wits about him to glance hurriedly at the counter where the ledger lay; should he not value Mr. Brierhart’s presence in his life so much, Mr. Hex might have just left him there on the floor, taken his desire, and departed—but he is not a man entirely without mercy. Nay, instead he roughly grabs the wounded hand and drags his friend upright, ignoring the forthcoming wince.  
“Let’s get this sorted out and then you can help me.”

The backroom of the store is dimly lit, though certainly not lacking in candles with which to light. Mr. Hex has considered many a time setting the entire thing aflame to see how big it would get, but that exciting proposal must be saved for another time, as it usually is. Gas lamps are almost suspiciously forgone from any of the downstairs rooms, Mr. Hex has noted in the past, but the reason is merely that Mr. Brierhart fails to see a reason for buying them, when his livelihood can be so easily used.  
For now he bandages up the cut on Mr. Brierhart’s palm; deeper than expected, could pose a problem for his business, but not especially worrying.  
Being the man who usually causes the need for it, Mr. Hex is no stranger to the surprisingly well stocked first aid kit. In fact, this is one of the few places he’s been invited to that has one. Courtesy of their mutual Doctor friend who is well aware of the dangers a bored Mr. Hex tends to pose to the unwitting, and Mr. Brierhart never learns.  
The herbal paste smells strongly under the bindings, but it’ll heal up the wound better than anything the duo could try.

“It stings something terrible… couldn’t you be more gentle?” Whimpering Wilfred. Mr. Hex stifles a laugh and rubs his thumb over Whimpering Wilfred’s fingers softly. He could be an accommodating man as well as merciful.

“Don’t be such a baby, it’s hardly life threatening.”

“No, but...” Mr. Brierhart trails off and looks at his shoes. “Never mind.” He takes his hand back and stands up, casting a large shadow across the work table in the center of the room.

Mr. Hex stands up with him and runs a hand through Mr. Brierhart’s messy hair. “No-one’s been giving you trouble lately, hm?”

“N-no, why do you ask?”

“Just making sure. You seem more frazzled than usual.”

Mr. Brierhart’s expression turns indignant. “I wonder why!” He huffs and opens the door to the storefront, flooding the small back room with light. The smirk leaves Mr. Hex’s face at the assault on his sensitive eyes, and he winces a little. Squinting justly at the light, he rights his shirt collar and follows after.

“You know I’d never seriously try to hurt you, my dear.”

“Perhaps not, but-”

“Names. Hurry now.” He stops that argument before it starts, not that the good Mr. Brierhart would be able to say anything anyway. Bursting into tears at the mere thought of confrontation stops that in its tracks; though it does make for a lovely sight to take in, Mr. Hex knows.

Mr. Brierhart starts and returns to his position at the back of the shop counter, righting his fallen chair and wiping his sweaty hands on his already disgusting half-apron. The ledger sits waiting.  
“I wish you wouldn’t do this… I-It’s bad for business.” Mr. Hex is well aware of this. “You’re looking for people that attended the auction, yes?”

Mr. Hex leans down and picks up the wooden figurine that Mr. Brierhart had been working on prior and sets it down on the counter with grace. He gives his friend a firm stare and raises an eyebrow. Mr. Brierhart takes the hint and turns the ledger towards him.  
“Let’s see… Mr. Webber, Mr. Finching, Ms. Hall… Ms. Ostensen- Oh!”  
A sudden bout of deranged laughter bursts from Mr. Hex, doing no favours for Mr. Brierhart’s already frayed nerves.  
“Oh, what wonderful irony! The Old Ones must truly favour me this day!”  
He leans over the counter in a swift motion, leering at the now tearful Brierhart. Alas, the Old Ones do not particularly care for this one.  
“Give me an address. Now.”

The miserable sod barely manages to get his words out between frightened squeaks, his hands crumpling his apron badly. The thing must be ruined beyond ken at this point, between the mess and the strain of a man tempering his anxiety.  
“I-I don’t- I d-don’t know!” The tears threatening to fall accentuate his sweet face perfectly. One more push and you could possibly see them dripping fat down his soft cheeks, like the most beautiful work of art Mr. Hex could scarcely begin to imagine. “I-it was a servant! Isn’t listed under the main address!”

Mr. Hex curses under his breath, time to call in some favours.  
“Ostensen… that’s a foreign name. I don’t imagine a trip to Upton is in order.”

He hadn’t noticed when his friend had fell, but Mr. Brierhart peers up at him from the floor, sniffling quietly.  
“She’s a famous artist isn’t she? New money. It’d explain the amount of candles her servant ordered.”

“...Indeed.”

Mr. Brierhart continues undaunted this time. “You’re annoyed because of the auction aren’t you? I imagine she sold something for a pretty penny.”

“Yes, but her luck will soon change.” Truthfully Mr. Hex had known of her for months now. An up-and-coming fashionable woman attracting suitors and patrons alike with her beautiful looks and ‘beautiful’ art. She definitely isn’t old money, but he had no idea where she could’ve gotten her leg up from; he doesn’t concern himself with every bleeder that crosses his path.

Mr. Brierhart’s face suddenly lights up and leans into Mr. Hex’s personal space with the radiance of a candle himself. “Oh, this is exciting! You don’t usually let me help with this part!”

“I’d rather you weren’t involved. Why are you so jolly about it anyway?”

“I just have to forget what you’re actually doing! As long as I pretend then it’s not scary at all, it’s just like a murder mystery novel!”  
Hex sighs. His crying face is cuter, but this isn’t so bad either.

“Oh! That reminds me, I have to go pick up my tea from Ms. Strout soon. She might be able to help us out too!”  
He’s not wrong but Mr. Hex doesn’t want drag him any deeper into his affairs, though that face is hard to say no to.  
“You have to get that odd stuff for your eyes too, right?”

Mr. Hex’s lips curl in disgust, along with the rest of his face. Mr. Brierhart looks sheepishly back at him.  
“I’d really rather not.”

“If you don’t, she’ll hunt you down anyway.”

He gives his friend a look that would shrivel up any plant. Ms. Ivey Strout was a good mutual friend, and the aforementioned provider of the first aid kit. Mr. Brierhart is prescribed herbal tea to calm his shaking hands and nerves; Mr. Hex receives eye drops for light sensitivity and a strange buzzing in his head he’s had ever since he was a child. Ms. Strout could be better termed as an apothecary or a herbalist, which sets many of her patients at ease, knowing exactly what’s going into your cures tends to rest a paranoid mind. Though she is also not a licensed Doctor and her practice is kept somewhat need-to-know, or can be seen as more of a private club.  
Despite this, seeing her is Mr. Hex’s absolute least favourite thing to do. Alas, as said before, he also cannot say no to Mr. Brierhart’s pleading face—not ever.  
“It's too late to go out at this hour, but when we do you’re paying for the ride and you will not say a word about my eyes.”

“Deal! It’s been such a long time since we’ve done anything together, Jervas!” He wipes the last of the tears from his eyes and beams. Mr. Hex squints instinctively.

“I’m tired. I’ll retire to my room.”

“The guest room you mean, though I suppose it is essentially yours at this point.” Wilfred No-Friends. Mr. Hex smirks again. It is a little mean to think that way about a rather endearing gesture though, so he mentally retracts it.

“It’s my room and I’m very happy to have it. Good job too, as I have spare clothes kept there.”

Mr. Brierhart looks surprisingly shocked. “Y-you do?”

“Of course I do. Now I really must sleep, it’s late.”

“Yes, yes. I suppose I should’ve assumed. Good night my friend.”

 

“Jervas, we have to go soon or it’ll get dark! Jervas!”

Shouting down the stairs at whatever ungodly time this must be in the morning, the nerve. Mr. Hex chooses not to respond out of petty spite. He’s unsure of how many minutes pass, but soon enough there’s knocking on his chamber door. He ignores it.  
He must have fallen asleep, for the next time he opens his eyes there’s someone shaking his blanketed body.

“Come now, it’s well past noon. I know you’re a night owl but we should go while it’s still decent.”

“Go away.” Mr. Hex mumbles back from within his cocoon. 

“This was your idea you know, I’m going downstairs to close up shop so you’d better be down here soon.” Mr. Brierhart pulls back and closes the door softly behind him. He has enough tact for that at least. The blanket moves with the telltale signs of a sigh.

The sun is low in the sky when Mr. Hex decides to venture downstairs, much to Mr. Brierhart’s dismay. Though he doesn’t vocalise it, an exasperated look is shot in the late riser’s direction. Which is also ignored, it’s a well trained skill. 

“Let’s go then, we haven’t got all day have we?” There’s a nasty smirk on Mr. Hex’s face now. Mr. Brierhart’s face sours in response, which is almost cute.

“You’re the one who- Ah, nevermind. I closed up shop an hour ago so we may head out right now.”

“Not that I care. We’re leaving.”

The trip from Ruxley to Upton is a long one, compared to Mr. Brierhart’s shop from the auction house which took a matter of minutes. Mr. Hex puts his feet up on the seat opposite, the same one Mr. Brierhart was occupying, and hefts another heavy sigh. Brierhart doesn’t look happy about it but is wise enough to not cause a fuss, knowing his friend would have only minor qualms about casting him out of the door and onto the cobbles. His disdainful expression brings a smile to Mr. Hex’s, who reasons that dirt smears on his breeches are merely the price to pay for coming along and making him do this in the first place.

“I’m taking you home after this.” His expression turns a mite more serious.

“...I know. I don’t fully understand what it is you do after you find these people but… I can make educated guesses at least.” Mr. Brierhart gives him a pained look. “I do want to help you.”

“You don’t.”

“But I-”

“No. I know what you think it is, but there are more reasons than that. There are things I can’t protect you from.”

Mr. Brierhart flinches back. It had been a while since Mr. Hex had seen him for this exact reason, and he’s not about to tell him why. He shows up and disappears, just like always. It’s for his friend’s own good, Hex tells himself.

“...Does Ms. Strout know about it?” Mr. Brierhart is surprisingly calm about it.

“Yes, that’s why she’s the only one who can make the medicine for my eyes.”  
The carriage falls quiet after that, he decides to press Mr. Brierhart for more conversation to stave off the silence of the afternoon; it doesn’t suit him.  
“I presume nothing interesting at all has happened around town since I was gone, it’s been quiet lately.”

He looks as if he’s choosing his words with extreme care, before he opens his mouth to answer. “There has been… something going on with the Guilds recently, I don’t know if you’ve heard.”  
Mr. Hex stays silent, prompting him to continue. His voice is lowered to a whisper as he carries on.  
“Ritual murders. Targeting ranking members of the Guilds. They say it’s the work of a religious madman, but the murderer is going after people who have recently been arrested or suspected of being members.”

This was all news to Hex, who didn’t usually stoop so low as to care about the petty concerns of common folk. However, contacts within the Thieves Guilds are valuable.  
“Oh? I knew there had been murders but I didn’t realise it ran that deep.”

“Well, this is all hearsay but rumours like this are rarely wrong.” He glances around nervously, as if anyone could be looking in and listening. To a horse-drawn carriage on the move. Idiot.  
“They’re saying the victims were all killed the same way, beheaded and their fat of their bellies is pinned to the floor so all can see the gruesome details within. And there are symbols written onto the floors and walls with blood! How terrible… I’m afraid I haven’t the courage to go outside much anymore.”

“I doubt you’ll be a target, and you never go out after dark anyway. You’ll be fine.”

The carriage lurches to a stop. The buildings surrounding the clinic shine out like sunbeams onto the street ahead, lighting it up where the sun cannot reach, trapped behind their towering forms— it would have to be a quick visit. Even the very air here seems lighter. Mr. Hex ponders to himself that there may indeed be merit in their God if they feel so compelled to make their own homes in His image, radiant and tall. Yet it is still just a house of man, and if one looks closely he can see the cracks behind the splendor here; he’ll know that these doors do not open for anything other than selfish desires, that they would spare no clemency.  
The plants outside the green door confirm that it is indeed Ms. Ivey Strout’s residence, Mr. Hex is surprised no-one steals them, but life in these well-to-do areas must be rather different. ...He’s not convinced by that reasoning though, more likely that the locals are too afraid of her to try anything.  
The pair wait a short while for their friend to answer the knock, Mr. Hex nursing his tender artist’s hands, and soon enough the good herbalist makes her appearance; no servant to take her call.

“Oh my, what dire circumstance has caused the two of you to darken my doorstep? Together, no less!”

Her purring voice sets Mr. Hex’s nerves on edge, cursing that he ever decided to come here. “Shut up and let us in.”

The smile she offers would infuriate even the most mild-mannered of men, but she does open her door wider and gestures for them to enter. The inside of her home is a far cry from what one would expect after seeing the exterior; rather than lavish rooms filled with fine wine and gold trimmed furniture, one sees merely simple desks with books and jars stacked atop. Mr. Hex knows there is a method in the seeming mess of her living space, but he has never managed to decipher it himself. Ms. Strout leads them into her main workroom, the only room in the house that the two are both familiar with, and lights her gas-lamps to stave off the gloom starting to penetrate it. Mr. Hex sees counters with vials, jars, a mortar and pestle; the sign of a busy woman at work. There’s a door in the corner with a glass window, allowing one to see its nature as a storeroom.  
Ms. Strout herself is a dark-skinned woman, black, and new money; she carries herself in clothing usually reserved for men. She pulls off the look so fashionably that no-one ever questions her. Her curly afro hair is brushed back and tied into a ponytail that sits atop her head, bushy and thick, and kept in place with a green hair tie; her favourite colour. She is noticeably older than both Mr. Hex and Mr. Brierhart, both in years and in bearing, and carries herself with a self-confident authority only a fool would question.  
However Mr. Hex also knows that she is just as allured by past mistakes as he himself is; uncannily intrigued by the black plague centuries prior, and the herbalist doctors sent to treat it.  
Some of the bottles standing here are a testament to that, as Mr. Hex also knows that not all things here are created with pious intent; things used to cure can just as easily be used to maim.

“I want you to check your records for a woman named Ostensen.”

“I assumed this would be what you wanted, the first time you’ve visited me in months and it’s a business call! I’m hurt Jervy.”  
Mr. Brierhart can be heard trying to stifle a laugh in the background.

“Shut your bloody mouth and do me this favour.”

“Of course, of course. No need to get your knickers in a twist, good sir.” She turns to Mr. Brierhart, who seems to have recovered. “I know what you’re here for too, don’t worry. If you could get me some chamomile from the back I’d be much obliged. Same place as usual.”

He nods enthusiastically and disappears into the storeroom. Jervas knows what she’s up to here and he imagines that Mr. Brierhart does too.  
Ms. Strout turns to him and lowers her voice, though they both know Mr. Brierhart will be trying very hard not to listen in; he’s the virtuous sort.

“Have you heard about those murders?”  
Mr. Hex nods in response.  
“You’re going to have to step in eventually, the power struggle is getting out of hand and it’s putting your precious contacts in danger.”

This is why we don’t want Mr. Brierhart to hear.  
“I’m aware. He neither commands nor suggests to me, but I’m aware this is what He would want. But I do have more pressing matters at present. Beauty waits for no man.” He smiles insidiously, making Ms. Strout frown.

“You’re incredibly lucky, and I fear that it won’t last.” She shakes her head. “Putting that aside, you wanted to find someone?”

“As I said earlier, Ostensen.”

It is at this point that Mr. Brierhart returns from the storeroom, looking rather pleased with himself as he clutches the jar of dried chamomile flowers in his hands. Ms. Strout takes the jar from him and begins crushing them in the mortar, along with some other ingredients Hex missed her grabbing. It would then be put in a separate jar when she was done, and handed to Mr. Brierhart for his tea strainers. He never bothered to ask what went into it, since he never cared enough.  
“You know where my books are Jervas, that name isn’t familiar to me, but if it’s not there I can search someone else’s records. Wilfred hold this for a second, would you?”

Mr. Hex turns away from the doctor and his stolen assistant; Ms. Strout keeps all her important books in the same place so he finds them relatively quickly. He flips through the pages hastily, skimming over names and ailments. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, just as Ms. Strout assumed, but he does find the records she’s kept on himself. He’s seen these pages before but it unsettles him every time, to see his own secrets laid bare on the paper. Extra notes have been added since last he saw, and he’s sure the grimace it brings to his face is noticed by Ms. Strout across the room, one has to be observant in her profession.  
He sighs and leans back, there’s little point in making a fuss with Mr. Brierhart present.  
“It’s not in here, I’d owe you a favour if you’d look around for me.”

She turns and chuckles heartily, clearly enjoying herself with all this. “Of course, another one on the tab. I’ll find a use for you yet.”

“Or I could just lend you my assistant for a while longer.”  
The assistant in question turns around and gives Mr. Hex the look of a man betrayed.  
“Anyhow, it’s late and we should return before the cabs stop running. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, unless I’ve more immediate appointments.”

“Of course. Here you go Wilfred.” She hands him the jar of herbal tea and turns to smirk at Mr. Hex. “I’ll have your mix ready for the next visit.”

He has the strong feeling he’s just dodged a bullet, but he’s well aware that it’s going to turn back around and catch him when he returns. She’s referring to his eye drops of course.  
“Yes, yes, whatever. Come Wilfred, we’re leaving.”

“Oh! Of course. Thank you Ms. Strout!” He bows politely, presents a winning smile, and follows after his hasty friend who has already bolted out of the front door.

The streets by now are considerably dimmer than before, what little light is left is provided by the dim streetlamps and reflected off of the shiny glass. Carriages will still be around, but rather less in number and harder to find. The duo walk to the end of the ghastly street and wait for one to pass them by.

The ride back feels rather short compared to the ride there, the chatter of Mr. Brierhart filling the quiet air with comfortable familiarity; but his expression tells Mr. Hex that he must have drifted off a few times, which is terribly embarrassing. He scrunches his face up in distaste but his talkative friend fails, or refuses, to notice. The murders circle around in Hex’s mind no matter how hard he tries to push them out, the only other thing he can think of is retiring to his chambers and pretending that it isn’t a problem ‘til morn.  
As time passes, Mr. Brierhart stops talking.

Only when the two are sat comfortably by the fire upstairs does he speak again. After a pleasant meal that Mr. Hex couldn’t bring himself to fully enjoy, not that he generally goes out of his way to enjoy food anyway.  
“Thank you for coming to see me again. I missed you.”

He makes a dismissive noise in response. Rude, perhaps, but not unexpected. Mr. Brierhart smiles sadly and excuses himself for the night, the softness in his eyes going unnoticed.


End file.
